


Late Summer's Wailing

by hotrodngold (Krystalicekitsu)



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Comment Fic, Community: xmen_firstkink, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-08
Updated: 2012-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-29 04:29:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/315835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Krystalicekitsu/pseuds/hotrodngold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a really hot day, Erik exchanges his turtleneck for a white polo shirt. Charles has some trouble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Late Summer's Wailing

**Author's Note:**

> Partially inspired by: 

This, Charles thinks, could be the largest problem he's ever encountered.

And no, that's not a double entendre.

(Except for how it so totally is.)

It had started out as a pleasant day, bright and a bit cool, but with that high set to the sun that promised nothing but roasting temperatures and an unrelenting, abusive heat later in the day.

Charles hates it when he's right about these sorts of things.

Well, no; he never gets tired of being right, but do you have any idea how hard it is to find summer clothes in his wardrobe?

Very. That answer is 'Very', with a capital 'V'.

Charles doesn't own 'summer clothes', much to Raven's chagrin. He owns long sleeve shirts and sweater vests and pullovers and cardigans. A large portion of his wardrobe is, in fact, suits. And more suits. A few gloves, some hats and a particularly nice cashmere scarf from one of his students. His workout clothes, of course.

Absolutely nothing for a 33 degree centigrade day.

He's going to melt.

So, he compromises a bit, wears an old short sleeve button-up that barely fits and one of the lighter weight pairs of khakis and tries not to look like he's dying during breakfast and discussions with Hank and a teasing talk with Raven until two o'clock is striking on the grandfather clock in the entry and he can let himself relax, and cool off, by changing into a loose tank-top and a pair of running shorts.

He instantly feels 50% more alive.

Until he steps outside.

Where Erik is.

And where Erik is most definitely _not_ going for a run.

Erik, who is in this... this... _This_. And Charles is trying very hard not to drool, or make a fool out of himself.

But really? The world is a cruel, cruel place with a harsh sense of humor.

Erik has summer clothes.

Or rather, Erik has a white polo shirt and what looks like linen pants. Oh, god, linen pants and this belt and there's a jacket tossed over the deck chair Erik has his feet propped in and-

Dear god, what has Charles _ever_ done to deserve this?

 _Someone should be shot_ , Charles thinks, _for ever inventing a shirt that looks like **that**_.

' _That_ ' is seductive and alluring, fabric stretched over pectorals and just this side of too small to contain biceps of a man who does far more than file paperwork every day. Fabric that bunches and piles and pulls and gathers like it's bloody _resentful_ of all that sculpted perfection, collar open, and god Charles wants nothing more than to lick the hollow of his throat, press his hands against that tight, flat stomach, spread his hands out and out as ribs and diaphragm move with the rhythms of breath and pulse until-

" _Charles._ "

Charles blinks, painfully and suddenly aware that Erik has been attempting to gain his attention for some time.

 _Obfuscate, dance around it, nonono, mustn't tell him-_ "Just a quick word with Moira. She thinks she might've found a lead, but it turned out not to be anything important," Charles smiles.

And it's true. Well, as of yesterday morning. But Erik nods and sits back down from his half-rise, offering his glass of iced tea with a rattle of ice cubes.

Charles accepts and tries not to make it look like he's gulping it.

The silence falls and Charles comes back to himself and an empty glass and Erik gazing out across the sprawling landscape of the mansion.

God, it's worse like this than when Erik was standing. Worse, because looking down at his friend lets him see the bare expanse at the back of Erik's neck, makes it easy to pick out the groups of muscles playing over his shoulders and chest and-

Charles nearly swallows an ice cube. Damnit, it shouldn't be this hard to-

Oh, bad time to be thinking that particular word. Very bad time indeed.

The thing that has Charles' attention most in all this is the flexing, tensing and shifting muscles and tendons in Erik's forearms. Those powerful, elegant, lovely hands, slender wrists and the lean, coiled muscle hiding beneath his friend's forearms which he so rarely gets to see.

He's twenty-nine, for Christ's sake. He should not be having this much a problem seeing Erik in. That. Damn. Shirt.

Erik shifts to rest his forearms against his knees, the shirt drawing taut over his powerful back and broad shoulders.

Charles tries very hard not to moan.

As it is, he has to steady himself against an adjacent patio chair.

He licks his lips. "You're not going for a run today?" Charles is fiercely proud that his voice wavers only a minute amount, and only at the end.

"Too hot," Erik says dismissively and Charles fights very hard not to project his thought of ' _Bloody hell, yes it is_ ' and the miles of lust that accompany it.

Days and weeks of caging this little aberrational desire for his friend and one white polo shirt undoes all his hard work? _Charles, my man, you are going soft_ , he thinks forlornly.

_Oh, if only._

At least he gets to come away from this with one more wank fantasy. Not that he'd been running out, but the thought of Erik on top of him, thrusting against him wildly while wearing nothing but that damned shirt, shoved up under his arms until Charles can attack his nipples and slip his hands up the sleeves and grip around his shoulders.

And Erik-

"Good god, Charles, would you stop thinking about it and just kiss me already?" Charles blinks down at Erik Lensherr's mildly irritated face, with lust-blown pupils and-

"Oh." _I really didn't mean to be projecting that_ , he thinks.

"I gathered," Erik replies dryly and Charles takes a mental step back, distancing himself and sealing off pathways an-

He's jerked forward, Erik's tongue hot and hard against his own. In a half a second, Erik has all his defenses torn down like Jerrico's bloody walls and any last hint of resistance Charles thought about entertaining disappears when Erik's hand wraps around him- _how'd- when'd- how'd he not noticed Erik working his pants off, oh god the children, doors with glass and outsides_ -

"Will you just stop _thinking_ ," Erik growls at him between kisses but Charles has his hands on Erik now, palms pressed against cotton fabric and yes, this is what he wanted, cloth wrapped around muscle and sinew and all under his- _his_ hands, gift wrapped and perfect, so perf-

Erik moans and stands and Charles has to close his eyes, his mind for half a second because he doesn't move back to do it and the sight and Erik's thoughts with the pressure and heat of him moving up and up Charles until they're both standing is- is _something_ and whatever it is it's nearly too much.

God.

Charles thinks he's swaying.

Doesn't matter in the next instant because there's a hand at the small of his back and another twining in his hair, cupping his skull- dear God-

The kiss- the word will have to do until Charles can invent an appropriate one for what it is that Erik does with his mouth- steals any breath Charles might've had the opportunity to save, makes him lightheaded even before the oxygen deprivation and bumps his temperature up a few degrees. If he had the capacity to register events and states outside his own, Charles might complain that he was fast approaching the ambient air temperature.

As it is, he doesn't even notice the sweat trickling down his neck until Erik is licking it off him.

"Dear _god_ ," Charles breathes, shudders, _gasps_. Erik growls into his throat, teeth closing gently around the sensitive skin under the corner of his jaw.

"Charles," Erik pauses briefly to get the word out before resuming his attack on Charles' neck, "Charles."

"Charles, I'm going to fuck you now. I'd appreciate it if you'd say yes now."

Charles groans aloud, eyes squeezed shut, head thrown back.

"Charles."

With a will, Charles draws himself back together enough to hiss out "yeeeesssssss" which seems enough to satisfy Erik's requirements because half a second later a hand tugs and drags his shorts down an inch at a time as another jerks the neck of his tank top up and over his head, leaving his arms still threaded and partially restrained. He moans again as the tugs at his shorts stop as soon as the elastic waist band is nestles snuggly under his prick and balls, the pressure delicious.

Yes. Yes, this. _This_ , Charles thinks, and keeps thinking. Erik's pants and belt rustle and clink as they slide down his narrow hips and Charles reaches out long enough to _yank_ his shorts down to mid-thigh, then sticks his hands back under that shirt, palms enjoying the scalding planes and muscles of Erik's chest nearly as much as his forearms were enjoying the eroticism of fabric not his own sliding on them.

God.

He leans forward at the same time Erik does but he has less to go. He wins, and sucks at a nipple through the white material. The fabric is rough and abrasive on his tongue and lips after even a short while, but he keeps at it, sucking and laving, interspacing his attentions with tugs of teeth and gentle nibbles. He smiles, vindicated, as Erik grumbles out a moan and crushes their hips together.

Jesus, yes, that feels _amazing_.

They both start thrusting, Charles isn't sure who starts, is fairly sure it doesn't matter as long as neither one of them _stops_. But Erik is walking them backwards and it's _so_ hard to concentrate on that and his attentions on Erik's nipples, though digging his fingers into the broad plane of back he'd seen earlier is easy enough since he's doing it for balance.

Judging from the choked, half coherent sound Erik makes, though, he really doesn't mind.

Charles isn't sure later how they got to the table. He's very sure that he isn't sure how they did it without breaking anything, and he's most assuredly sure he has no idea how they did it without alerting anyone.

In the end, though, the both make it in one piece and Charles can arch up off the table without having to worry about things like gravity and inexplicably un-lockable knees. It also makes it easier for Erik to press against him, making the pressure against their pricks deliciously wonderful.

And having that blasted, erotic shirt rubbing up against his nipples is a definite perk.

He's so hard he thinks it might just be possible to die, and the slippery shoves Erik is giving him, the feeling of Erik's cock riding the crease of his hip just makes him viscerally glad for no apparent reason. The fierce joy- perhaps one part possession- explodes in his mind and it's only as the emotion drives him over the edge into orgasm that he thinks it might not be his.

He groans as he comes down, aware of his hands fisted in _that shirt_ , as much as he is of the whispered _so beautiful, lovely, mine_ that skates across his mind. Erik bites his lip as he comes, arching above him, when Charles jerks in response to _that_ and he can't help but think the words right back at him.

_Beautiful. Lovely. Mine._

Erik collapses across his chest, panting raggedly, but Charles can feel the ferocious grin threatening to break Erik's face in two as much in his mind as pressed into his shoulder. Erik shifts and settles above him-

Is he-

"Are you- Is-," Charles stops, clears his throat. "Are we snuggling?"

"Charles, go to sleep." Erik bites gently along his neck before nosing in behind his ear.

"Ah. I see."

_Well, alright then._

Erik chuffs a laugh and squeezes him close.


End file.
